Tacitus Incantatorum
by PFreitas87
Summary: The beautiful Zatanna Zatara, daughter of the legendary magician Giovanni Zatara, is an expert of the occult. Despite her proficiency in the mystic matters, when a dear one vanishes, the magician has to figure out where did he go and why. Now she's got to deal with ancient and powerful things, unknown event to her. They say words can move mountains, but is it really so?
1. Chapter 1

**Dear fanfic reader,**

This is my very first publication. It means that the story below is nothing but a raw clay amphora, not yet finished but already showing its definitive shape.

I'd like to make it clear that English is not my native language, thus it's only logical to assume that typos and concordance errors (or even "odd" word choices)

are likely to dwell within the text. Please, take it into account.

The main reason I've decided to publish this story is that this is one of my favorites characters in the DCU and I love imagining her adventures through the occult and the magical. However I'd love to have some feedback about it. Whether it is a criticism or a praise, anything people can contribute with will be very much appreciated. I just wanted to share her adventures with anyone who's interested.

I really hope I can entertain you and, depending on your feedback, I shall publish the following chapters soon.

Good reading to you, dear reader ;)

 **PFreitas**

* * *

 **PLEASE, MIND THE GAP**

It can never be said that the toll was too high. Or that paying the price was anywhere close to effortless, mind you.

To be fair, it always depended on one's talent or one's resolution.  
Y'see, some people are born natural leaders. An inspiration to millions of followers. Some are born with the courage of an entire roman legion. Some even can boast an intellect that can bring the dawn a whole new era towards mankind. And there are those, very special individuals, whose talent is and must be always kept away from everyone else's eyes. A talent so terrible, so grim and yet so unbelievably impressive, that, left in plain sight, would be enough to break the very soul of a gazer...

They say the ultimate rule of nature is the "survival of the fittest". I beg to disagree. Throughout my life I've seen so much, things that should be impossible. Things that ought to belong into the realm of fantasy and the oneiric. Except that they didn't. I saw it with my very eyes.

And I'll tell you everything there is to know, so you don't go insane.

I do care about you, dear.

But, first, I must tell you this: please, mind the gap!

* * *

 **THREE DOLLARS AND YOUR SOUL**

The sunlight broke in, trespassing the blackout curtains through narrow cracks and into the room, like a sly cat. It rolled past the carpeted floor, the crumpled black and white clothes, climbing onto the bed to conquer the sheets that shifted ever so slightly whenever she moved underneath.

It was a rough night, while awake. It was even rougher when she fell asleep.

― Fucking...

Her eyes moved fast under its lids, suddenly disturbed by the sunshine, that rude intruder. Her mouth was dry and kind of sticky. She moved her hand to her right, instinctively, reaching for the bottle of water she kept on the bedside table. Instead, the clink of glass on glass indicated the thing she was looking for wasn't there.

― Is everything okay? ― A deep, throaty voice asked, muffled by a pillow or a thick cover.

― Ehm, yes. It is. I'm just thirsty. ― She replied, not really sure to whom.

― There's more Bud at the fridge. Help yourself, but don't leave me dry, alright?

― S-sure. ― She agreed.

Although she felt a little light-headed, it probably was a better idea to leave rather than extend this situation to levels that she wouldn't like to deal. She wasn't the type of girl who likes one-night-stands, then again she wasn't the type of girl who represses her longings.

― Sserd pu! ― the conjuration came out like a whisper. In the blink of an eye, the otherwise naked brunette, was fully clad in black ankle boots, black dyed jeans, a tight white tank-top and her favourite leather jacket, as black as her long straight hair. The only thing that wasn't monochromatic was her stormy blue eyes.

After the backwards spell, pretty much everything that was on the ground vanished, to be magically transported onto her. Just a white shirt and a white underwear still remained on the floor, and a red untied bow-tie lying on a chair. She never knew where the hell his pants were.

Zatanna Zatara, daughter of the great magician Giovanni Zatara, walked with legs that seemed to be unwilling to bend to her commands. She felt as if they were not hers, but she was pretty sure that that was just a misunderstanding. An ethylic misunderstanding.

The man's house ― or rather a huge room that could be called a kitchen-living room-bedroom- studio like-place ― was the very epitome of a "man cave". The inhabitants of the house were a large number of bottles of beer, divided in two main races who seemed to coexist in balanced population proportions: half were brown bottles, half were green. The landscape was taken over by lush fields of pizza cardboards, a few springs of full ashtrays and overlooked by the sentinels of that testosterone driven nation, about a dozen posters of playmates and other semi-naked models.

The spell caster didn't have any feelings of guilt or regret. Maybe a little, but only because she didn't intend to drink as much as she apparently did.

The fridge was overridden with pizzeria flyers and pizza discount coupons on the door. She opened it, looking for water, but only Budweiser bottles looked back at her. Zatanna suddenly felt a flash of hot anger flare up her chest and, for just one second, really wanted to flatten that barbarian's face. How could anyone live like this?

However she clenched her teeth furiously and decided to leave.

― TROPELET EM TUO FO SIHT YTS! ― Zatanna conjured her lungs out.

A blast of air, produced by the vacuum of her teleportation, threw clouds of ash and pizzeria flyers around the room-house. The man under the covers didn't notice anything at all.

The magician was caught by a refreshing cool morning air. It was mid-autumn and the king star cast arrows of sunlight light like the last bastion against its sworn enemy, the chilling bitter cold. She was in the middle of a park, somewhere in the west side of New Amsterdam, drowning in warmth. Both conflicting sides, the cold wind and the hot sun, she decided, were a perfect mix of what she just needed. That, and a fat hot-dog.

― Good morning, sir. Can I have a hot-dog, please? ―She entreated the hot-dog man. He was a young, middle-eastern looking man, with barely a hint of a moustache upon his lips. ― I'd also appreciate it if you could get me a bottle of water, while you're preparing the hot-dog.

― Yes, ma'am, here's your water. ― the young man replied, handing her the most crystalline and invigorating water she'd have in a long time. Perhaps it was just the hangover seasoning the taste perception. She took a large gulp straight from the bottle.

― Now here's your hot-dog, ma'am. That'd be three dollars and your soul, please.

― My... WHAT!? ― Zatanna almost choked on the water, half swallowed.

― Three dollars and your soul, Zatanna. ― The young man announced, now sounding much older than he looked at first. The sky turned an unnatural dark grey, engulfing every hint of light there was.

― W-who are you? ― She stepped backwards, dropping the bottle on the ground. ― Wohs ruoy eurt fles!

As in a dream, the whole scene just faded and a startled young man was staring at her. It was as if HE was the one who saw a pretty scary thing, and not her. Not only the water but also the hot-dog lay on the sidewalk, completely scattered over the asphalt.

― M-ma'am. It's still three dollars. It's fair. ― He said, looking at her and at the wasted food in turns. She stood there, frozen, not sure what to make of it. Her lips moved, as if trying to articulate something, anything, but just couldn't exactly decide what.

― Three dollars, ma'am. If you don't pay I'll be ruined. It's fair! ― The young man insisted.

― What the hell just happened? ―She finally managed to say.

― I don't know, ma'am. You just zoned out as soon as I gave you the hot-dog. Then you said some weird thing I couldn't understand and dropped your food on the ground.

― I... Zoned out?

― Yes. Like hypnosis, you know? ― He made a pinch movement with his thumb and forefinger and moved it sideways, as if holding an invisible pendulum.

― Geez, I must be really off my game. I've never had such a terrible hangover. ― Zatanna bethought.

The young man just extended his right hand, palm up, and flung a hopeful look at her. She took the hint and brought three dollars from a chest pocket on her jacket and conceded ― It's fair.

The brunette decided to go home (walking, not teleporting), lest she conjure lightning and thunder upon someone by accident.

 _Gosh, I really cannot remember what happened last night. All I can remember are flashes of memory, like half-dried photographs hanging in a darkroom. Frozen moments seen from another person's eyes. But I just know they're mine. Or are they?_

Not very aware how, her legs appeared to have accomplished bringing her home. Zatanna climbed the stairs, and reached the fourth floor of the old brownstone building. She unlocked the door and noticed an orange-ish letter that was slipped through the door and got stuck under the carpet.

It had no identification, just two capital handwritten letters on it: JC. She guessed who JC belonged to and decided not to open it. Zatanna just threw Constantine's letter on the kitchen table and went to the fridge. If she had the time (and the will. Mostly the will, she'd say), she'd read it later.

The great magician and illusionist, taught by Zatara himself, took two paracetamol pills and sat on a well cushioned reclining chair. _Not every headache has to be cured by magic..._

A considerable time had passed, although the dim-lit street light indicated it should be dusk of the very same day, or perhaps the dawn of the next one. The brunette got up, her head a little less naggy than earlier today (or yesterday at any rate), and went straight for the fridge. She craved something sweet and she remembered there was three quarters of a Ben & Jerry's brownie flavoured ice cream bucket somewhere. The ice cream was there indeed, behind a huge milk carton.

― Noops! ― As nonchalant as ever, she called for the cutlery. A bright silver spoon materialized in her right hand. Zatanna took a chair, sat by the small kitchen table and placed the ice cream bucket on it. When she was about to open the lid, she noticed the orange-ish letter under the bucket. It got a wet brown half ring, imprinted by the bucket bottom, smudging some of the handwriting on it.

― JC... I wonder what the hell that English bastard wants now. If any, I'd better not to forget he only loves himself and no one else.

She sank the spoon into the creamy treat, dug in really good and brought a spoonful to her lips.

 _Fuck yeah. That's exactly what I'm talking about,_ she thought. Zatanna closed her eyes, savouring the brownie aftertaste it left. Then a synergic reaction took place, bringing pleasant images to her mind. Nothing else was wrong in the world, during those tiny few seconds. Everything cruel about her life just seemed to have become a frivolous spring breeze, brushing past her pale skin and dark hair to never touch her again. The memory of Zatara, her father, no longer was fraught with pain, only warm feelings permeated her mind and heart. The fact that she'd been alone for so long was, now, something that made her stronger, more independent, more determined.

But that moment passed. Everything passed. The good feelings, the burst of resolution, the brownie taste vanished with a single picture that took over her mind: John Constantine.

They had had their moment in the past. Well, **moments** , as a matter of fact. Amongst comings and goings, they'd go over a cycle that goes like this: a burning desire for one another, then a period of apparent calmness, followed by a descendant trajectory towards a restless contempt and finally leading to the inevitable break up (which, twice, involved lampshades, picture frames and glasses being telekinetically/magically thrown against walls - thanks to Constantine's ability to dodge them on time). The interim between the latter stage and the former varied from tense armistice to utter oblivion.

His letter was a clear violation of that truce, or whatever the situation was, and Zatanna was absolutely unwilling to re-establish relations with him.

But, just in case, she decided to check what was so damn important. Couldn't hurt, right?


	2. Chapter 2

**THE FIRST ONE**

Just like anything else in life, in order to understand the bigger picture we've got to go back a little, to grasp the smaller parts that make the whole.

It was many, many years ago. Over thirty millennia, to be precise. That was when the first one lived.

Most people believe that Cain was the first, but that's not true at all. He was a famous one, yes. No questions about that. But the **first**? No, not even close to that.

The first's name was Elon.

Elon was the last child to be born in that fall. His mother was a stout woman with pitch black hair and amber eyes. Although that was her third child, she'd bled for the first time only a couple summers before.

Elon was born a frail little thing, much paler than everyone else's brown skin. He would feebly suck onto his mother's breast, always letting milk trickle down his cheek and be wasted.

Contrary to his mother's expectation, he survived, winter after winter, even after his older brother had failed to survive.

As soon as his (surviving) older brother grew his first facial hair, he was able to join the men on hunting the big beasts of the land. The boy Elon would sit by an advantage point near the encampment to see if he could get a glimpse of the men.

His mother and the other women made several tools and ornaments, using bones, shells, teeth and whatever else they could. Elon was amazed by how they were skilled, sometimes.

He tried making a collar using some flints he'd found. They were so few and so spaced out that his collar did not rattle like everyone else's. Elon kept that ugly, silent, black and grey thing around his neck, while everyone had a colourful, noise making one.

The men brought, once in a while, the big beasts they hunted. No more than one man was lost when hunting a mammoth. One fatidic afternoon, things went a different way. This particular time, only half of the men got back, and barely breathing.

They told they were taken by surprise by the "other people". Elon's brother fell in that fight.

The other people were shorter, stouter, stronger people. They had sunshine or fire in their hair, as it was said, snow covering their bodies and pools of water in the eyes.

Elon's people and the other people eventually fought for the same game, quarrelling now and then.

The tribe's pride was hurt but there was nothing they could do. Now they were outmanned and apparently outskilled.

After the big winter, they went once again after the big beasts. Elon couldn't grow a beard, but since he was now the eldest son and a very tall man, not very strong though, he managed to join the men on the hunt.

Elon was a terrible tool-maker, a terrible painting-maker, and now he'd found out he was a terrible hunter as well. Whenever he tried to throw a spear, it would dance awkwardly in the air and land either on its shaft or much wider than the target. He never got the chance to earn a sliver of respect among his own people. The men barely noticed him. Many times, after they had moved camp, he was left behind because Elon was simply unremarkable.

In a warm summer morning, right before the first stars were swallowed by the rising sun, Elon felt something stir inside him. The man-boy walked out of the camp. It wasn't hard, specially because he walked silently and nobody ever noticed him. Elon quickly found an advantage point. He felt he should go there for some reason, and so he did. Sitting on that tall boulder, he conjectured that if he left for good, no one would miss him. He wondered how long would it take his tribe to realize he'd gone, if ever...

Elon saw the sky go from black to purple, from purple to pink, from pink to cobalt. He was gazing at the horizon, when something drew his attention. It wasn't easy to spot, but he did see movement in the outer reaches of the forest, next to a bend of a far river. It was the other people!

Not sure why, he simply walked towards the other people's encampment.

When he got close, he realized that there were just a handful of women looking after their children.

 _The men must have gone hunting!_

Instinctively, Elon brought his bone tipped spear and threw it against a woman standing near the riverbed. Somehow, the spear flew sure this time.

It was beautiful!

It cut the morning air, barely making any sound. It ran its straight path and caught the woman's throat. She never got the chance to scream.

Elon approached the body to retrieve the spear and dislodged it from the corpse. Her face was twisted in a frozen expression of surprise and terror.

That sight brought tears to his eyes. Tears of joy.

That was the first time he'd been successful at doing something. He wished his tribe was there to witness his moment of triumph.

Then another thought crossed his mind: _is there anyone else I can try doing it again?_

Well, he'd seen where the encampment was, and found his way to it.

When Elon got there, seven women and a dozen children were scattered around or next to the mammoth bone huts.

Many hours later, when the men arrived from hunting, they only found what Elon left for them to see. The pile of ashes and half burnt bones was still warm.

Elon kept a lookout for a couple of days, never too far from the other people men. He'd walk through the shadows, as silent as silent is, much more comfortable in the darkness than in broad daylight.

It took him four more days to ambush and kill the other people men, one by one. He'd spear them by distance most of the time. Twice he emerged from the shadows to cut an unaware enemy's throat with a wicked flint knife.

Elon caught the last one of them drowning in madness and confusion. The man was as big as a wild boar, hairy as a mammoth and startled like a hart. He had braided sunshine hair and earthen brown shaggy beard.

He never heard Elon's footsteps, nor Elon's ugly flint collar. The other people giant only kept babbling something on and on, smoothly rocking back and forth, facing the remnants of his encampment.

Suddenly the tip of a spear was produced from within his chest. The man choked on his own blood and finally stopped talking.

Before passing away, he managed to steal a glance at his assassin. He found a smiling boy-man, happier than his own child ever was, gripping the shaft of the spear and twisting it sideways to loosen it from his ribs.

Elon eventually got back to his tribe. He was never a great gatherer, never really looking forward to going hunting, except when they migrated and got to a new region for the very first time. Elon would scout the lands for days, sometimes weeks, and always come back with the widest grin of the world. He had many children, and his children had many children more.

 _Phew_ , time really does fly when we're entertained!

Well, as I said before, this is just one tile of a larger stained glass work piece. But, knowing the **first's** story is a great way of getting started.

Bear with me and I promise I'll teach you so much more...

* * *

 **A LITTLE GIRL AND A PENGUIN DOLL WITH A TOP HAT**

As soon as the brunette opened the letter, she felt like 100,000 volts trotted through and over her, jolting every muscle fiber she got. She locked her jaw and the brightest flash she's ever seen blinded her until darkness took her over and brought her into the void.

Zatanna was in a golden meadow. What at first seemed tall dried grass revealed to be wheat. A massive wheat field that went as long as her eye could reach and beyond. Smooth hills, at the fringe of her field of view, formed a harmonic undulation where the sky met the ground.

The magician turned around and saw a small, wheat-less patch; a clearing in the honey coloured field.

She walked through the plants, feeling the bristles skimming the back of her naked hand. Although it was sunny, the cold breeze kept her wearing the leather jacket.

Zatanna opened the last curtain of wheat and was met by a little girl serving tea to a penguin plush doll.

― Hey, Zee! It's about time. Come, sit! The tea is still hot. ― The little girl announced, smiling a beautiful toddler smile. She pointed out Zatanna's seat, between herself and the penguin. The woman hesitated, but didn't argue.

― Do we know each other? ― Zee asked.

― Well, yes and no.

― Okay... So, what's your name.

― Excellent question, Zee. But before that, I must ask **you** a question... Would you like some tea?

― Hmm, sure.

Zatanna got a hold of her teacup and extended in the little girl's direction. The child poured an imaginary tea from a plastic yellow teapot. The brunette placed the teacup in front of her, on the table, which left the little girl with a puzzled look.

― Oh, right! ― Then she brought the cup to her lips, tasting the fake infusion. ― It tastes really good.

― You're funny, Zee. ― The little girl stated, putting the pot away and bringing a orange-ish letter from under the little table.

― Wait. Where did you get that?

― Well, I sent you this letter.

Zatanna was only confused up to this point. Now she was confused and scared.

― **You** sent it? It was you who killed me?

― What are you talking about? I didn't kill you. This is not heaven, or the afterlife, or whatever. This is your head, Zee. I'm you!

The magician moved her lips frantically. A million thoughts crossed her mind at the same time, as if every single synapses she made were telling her something new and different and important, something she should heed.

― Look, this is not exactly what you'd expect from a great magicians mind. I get it. But, as you already know, magic doesn't follow strict rules. Just like the human brain.

The little girl seemed wise beyond her years. Well, if what she said was true, then she was no little girl at all, which explained her aplomb. She was the owner of this place. It was her home.

― So why am I here, then? I remember feeling as if I'd bitten a thick copper wire.

― Ah, I know. I felt it too, ― little Zee acceded. ― It wasn't my brightest idea, but it did work, so I'll consider it a success nevertheless.

The toddler adjusted herself on the small plastic chair, crossed her arms and took a businesslike instance.

― He, ― the girl pointed to the penguin plush doll, ― is in a big trouble. He sent an ethereal message asking for rescue. He's trapped in some extra-planar dimension and the only thing he could do is getting this message through an opening he found, or created. I'm not quite sure.

Zatanna looked at the penguin. It was a penguin plush doll, his arms sewn onto his body. It had a red bow-tie and a little navy-blue top hat.

― You mean the penguin? How come?

― He, the penguin, is actually just the form he's taken into your subconscious. He's the representation of Constantine here.

― What the f... ― Zatanna hesitated, suddenly self-conscious about her language in front of the little girl.

― Fuck. ― She said nonchalantly. ― I've said worse myself. Relax. I'm **you** , remember? ― She winked.

― As I was saying, he, or the actual person whose subjective personality has taken the shape of a penguin plush doll, sent a trans-planar message. His message could only find me, which is the form your _Unbewusste_ , your unconscious perception of yourself, has taken.

― So you are me, psychologically speaking.

― Or rather you are me, since you cannot affect me directly but I can do the other way around. Well, kind of. There are other "Zees" as well, but I've been in charge mostly. Except for last night.

Zatanna looked utterly lost and confused. The _unbewusste_ projection got up from the chair and walked beside her troubled self. The child hugged her, slowly caressing her arm. Her tiny hands felt so warm, so sure, she was definitely something more than just a child.

― I know you're confused. Take it easy, Zee. I promise things will get better. You're confused because there's something wrong in your soul, and that something is related to the message Constantine sent us. He's in real trouble. Although you can't tell, I can. We do care about him and you're just not aware of it yet. We're really concerned about what might happen to him.

It was as if the magician never knew about something and, out of the blue, an axiom was brought before her. It was just too obvious that she'd been avoiding something, fighting a restlessness until now she couldn't tell what or why.

Suddenly, the void ceased to be just a void and became an uncomfortable, but familiar emptiness. It wasn't a craving for a faceless desire, but rather a far-flung place (or person) she longed. It wasn't a romantic necessity, but a deep human emotion: it was a distress call she had to respond to.

― Now you understand. ― The child brightened up, her eyes barely open against her chubby cheeks.

― I do. He's a friend, after all. I known him for so long. We've been together through really bad times. He's saved me many times. I can't just ignore him... ― Zatanna spoke mostly to herself.

― That's my girl!

― But how can I help him? How can I find where he is?

The little girl shook her head in approval.

― Again, an excellent question. Well, his message didn't exactly say it. All I could read is that he was trapped in a different dimension and that you're possibly the only person who can actually help him.

― So I should start looking for clues in his apartment, I suppose.

― Fair enough.

― Anything else I should know?

― Ah, yes, in fact there is. He said "you must thoroughly understand".

― "You must thoroughly understand"? What's that supposed to mean?

― Dunno. ― Little Zee replied, shrugging her tiny shoulders.

― Shit... It couldn't be too easy, could it?

The child simply smiled and said: ― I'm sorry I cannot help any more. And I apologize for the shock. It was the only way I could think of to get you straight here.

― What do you mean?

― Well, a mere dream would be too abstract to hold a proper conversation. And if you didn't come straight here, you'd probably run into your superego or your id. And let me tell you, you do NOT want to meet your id, especially after her last night's performance. Your affair really messed her up.

― My affair? You mean the man I slept with? I can't remember last night nor who he is.

― Nevermind about him. Just don't let him near you again.

― I'll try, I guess...

― Now it's time to go, Zee. I wish you... I wish **us** the best of luck!

The cold breeze stopped completely. The sky started to crack and crumble, revealing an exterior or sheer light, like watching an egg hatch from the inside. A warm feeling of sunshine flooded her heart and she felt herself hovering over the wheat field.

― Whatever it was, don't forget Zee: "you must thoroughly understand". I have a feeling that **understanding** is the key to finding him.

Zatanna never had the time to acknowledge her unconscious self's last advice. She woke up lying on the floor. The kitchen curtains were wide open and the sun shone full in her face. The light hurt her eyes a little, but it was fine.

The worst part is that the ice cream melted. There goes six dollars.


	3. Chapter 3

**THORN**

It took Zatanna about four hours of research to realize she knew shit about trans-planar dimensions. She went through every single book, text, commentary, footnote, tome, papyrus, clay tablet... absolutely everything that might hold a sliver of information to help her. _Xenoworlds_ by Geleth, _One Hundred and One Ways to Cross Between Universes_ by Alain Poutiére, _Realities_ by Enrico Massimo and _Book With No Title_ by Unknown were the biggest hopes she had, unfortunately to no avail. _So much for a home library_ she thought.

― To hell with this. ― She fumed, irritated, ― I'll just go to his apartment and see what I can find.

The sable haired woman put her leather jacket over her shoulders, grabbed the keys and went toward a back door of the building. The place opened up in an outdoor area, Norway maple leaves forming a glowing yellow carpet everywhere on the ground, fringed by the back of tall brownstone buildings in every direction. Someone should rake this mess...

She entered a small opening between two buildings with fire escape ladders far too narrow to be functional above her. She skipped a brown-black puddle, circumvented a large moss-green dumpster and finally got out onto 87th street. Zee then headed west and walked 3 blocks, eventually turning right and stopping before a big warehouse gate, spotted with rust at the sides and the bottom where it touch the ground. A key was produced from an internal chest pocket and she thrust it into a lock. Although the gate seemed to have seen better days, the lock was abnormally silver and shiny. With a little effort, she opened it wide.

Inside, at the very centre of the warehouse, Thorn was sleeping. Zatanna removed the cover sheet, raising a ghastly cloud of dust.

― Rotaripser no! ― Zee conjured, most out of reaction. She was magically able to breathe as if there was no dust at all, but no tangible apparel appeared over her face though.

From under the cover sheet, Thorn looked like a large animal hibernating. It was a Confederate X132 Hellcat motorcycle. It had 500 pounds, the bodywork all black and chrome, with coppery exhaust pipes. People say that pets are the reflection of their owners. Thorn was indeed the machine version of its master, almost like the transmogrification of Zatanna Zatara into a bike. Perhaps the saying did carry some wisdom after all.

Her hand ran over Thorn's gas tank and handlebars, like a tamer carefully reaching out to a dangerous animal, feeling the coolness of the metal on her delicate ivory fingers. Then she got a hold of the black helmet, strapped it on and climbed onto Thorn. Donning the leather gloves, she tried a peremptory roll on the throttle. Thorn roared in response. For about forty minutes, Zatanna and Thorn were a merry couple, enjoying the company of each other, percolating the traffic in zigzag moves and riding the wind as freely as it gets.

Constantine's apartment wasn't really his home. He spent more time travelling and hustling whatever poor bastard he could swindle than anything else. John barely used this place for sleep, let alone actually living here. No one's ever heard of a couch potato grifter after all.

The place was very messy, with hints of a struggle, and gloomy. It had an eerie dust mist that spun and danced awkwardly under the white light from a lamppost somewhere out in the street.

― If I were a bloody numpty, where would I be? ― She said in a forced British accent, bobbing her head in a pantomimic fashion. ― I'd have been trapped after soaking a bottle of scotch dry? Or I'm so stupid that I summoned the wrong kind of guest to my residence?

She looked the place up and down, moving furniture around and inspecting objects that drew her attention. There was indeed an empty bottle of cheap scotch, although she had mentioned it just as a joke.

― What the fuck, John?... This shit it probably better suited to unclogging toilet plumbing. ― Zee protested, holding the bottle by the neck with pinched thumb and forefinger. She then threw the bottle away.

After finding some bras and two panties - which she guessed to belong to other people, because they were either smaller or larger than what would be John's number if he had decided wearing women underwear -, the magician gave up trying to use the knowledge she gathered throughout the years watching CSI.

Time for the big guns.

* * *

 **VANISHED IN THIN AIR**

Zatanna stood in the middle of the room. She was upright, with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and quietly. There was a gracefulness about her figure, tall and slender and fluid. Yes, she was fluid, like the gentle flow of a river. Her hair meandered through her head and neck and shoulders, cascading over her back, faintly billowing at the tips. Her arms moved with the grace of a gazelle, in delicate and lightning fast movements, sure and unfaltering. The boot clad legs walked firm strides, planting every step onto the ground like a deep root sunken into the earth.

Her hands were brought together and her hands, joined, formed a upside down triangle shape. The thumbs were the base and the outstretched fingers formed the sides of the geometric symbol. Her breath became even slower. Her chest moved ever so slightly, just enough to smooth the wrinkles of the leather fabric of her jacket.

What started as a silent chant, slowly bestrode her mind and became a whispered recitation.

― Alem khazat ghool. Alem khazat ghool...

The dust mist seemed startled, somewhat offended by the chant. It spun away, revolving in itself and sucking its way out through the small crevasses it could find towards the cool night out there. The chant rose in a steady crescendo, becoming a booming invocation in Zatanna's voice.

― Alem khazat ghool. Alem khazat ghool. Alem khazat ghool. ALEM KHAZAT GHOOL!

For five full seconds, everything was absolutely still. An unnatural stillness, where everything froze, the time seeming to hold its breath waiting for something to happen. And then, indeed, something happened. Something extraordinary and bizarre and completely unexpected: John walked in staggering and bleeding, barely standing on his feet.

The Englishman opened the door with the little strength he had left about him. He leaned against the door, trying to steady himself, but seemed to fail at the attempt when the door yielded to his weight. John lurched forward in an attempt to find something else to support his weight. He ended up knocking a lamp and a couple of objects onto the floor.

His coat was ruined. Half of it was shredded and torn while the other half was tinted in dark brown. Constantine still bled profusely, though the amount of blood on him and his coat, besides most of it being already dry and cracking, indicated that someone - or something - had a large contribution to the blood shower John took.

The Brit fumbled in a side pocket, getting hold of a dark-gold Zippo lighter. Although he was clearly hurt and utterly useless, he still managed to deftly light a cigarette up. Old habits die hard, as the saying goes...

He lurched himself on a sofa and fainted, cigarette on his lips and all. The only sign that he hadn't really passed out was the bright orange glow at the tip of his tobacco stick. It still shone in vivid colours, cracking as the embers slowly crawled their way up the cigarette's body, while smoke drifted out in lazy puffs from his nostrils.

In Zatanna's eyes, that was everything she expected from him. He'd gotten into some trouble, messed with the wrong folks, things got a little rough but he'd eventually get away with whatever trick he's pulled this time and come out (mostly) unscathed. All in all, it was not a rare sight.

However, suddenly he opened his eyes wide. The pupils dilated and he gripped the sofa armrest tight in a instinctive reaction. His sky blue eyes wandered wildly around, looking for some hidden peril lurking nearby. He took the Zippo lighter to his side, like a knight holding his most trusted sword before an attack, and brought his free arm protectively at his face level.

Then the door swung open with a boom. Constantine's face was pure terror and bewilderment.

― Why are you doing this? ― John yelled at the door. His voice came out as a chilling terror shrill, hardly intelligible, ― what the bloody fuck is wrong with you, mate?

Then Batman launched himself forward, tackling John at his waist level and landing into the kitchen. The tangle of bodies went clean through Zatanna's, completely undisturbed by any physics law that might say otherwise.

The masked vigilante raised his clenched fist to deal an ending blow, but John's enchantment was faster. Before Batman's gloved knuckles touched Constantine's face, both men vanished in thin air.

The brunette felt exhausted, as if she had run the New Amsterdam City Marathon back and forth. Every second she spend into the vision were brought upon her, weighting her down to her knees. She breathed with difficulty, but it was expected to be like this. After a couple of minutes and a light-headedness, she finally gathered enough strength to stand up again.

With the knowledge of Constantine's disappearing, she'd have to ask the Bat what John could possibly do to upset him that much. _Finally I'm getting somewhere_ , she thought. _But I've gotta rest for now_.

* * *

 **A SHADOW DENSER THAN SHADOW**

Zatanna went out into the street again. It was two in the morning and her breath steamed in front of her. The street was completely silent and dead. Thorn was covered in a fine powder of frozen dew, glinting in white and blue and chrome.

She took the first step toward Thorn when she heard a loud flick of a switch. Two pairs of lampposts, at both far ends of the street, went out. Then two more. And two more. It was coming in her direction and she bet it wasn't a coincidence.

The magician didn't move a single muscle, didn't mount on Thorn, but didn't let the handlebar go either.

The urban sight became darkness and only the night sky had distinctive features about it. It was funny to think that the whole universe is always there, vast and imposing, yet we usually do not and cannot see it because such grandiosity is blinded by our petty human cities and their petty street lights.

Well, the universe was definitely there, just like a presence that emerged from within the shadows. It wailed and whimpered with an otherworldly noise. The noise wasn't some sort of entreaty, however, but a warning.

A paw made of a shadow denser than shadow thumped on the ground, reverberating the pavement under Zatanna's boots. A pungent scent took over the air, apparently leaking out of the shadow beast's "mouth". It smelled of rotten food and vinegar or some sort of fermentation sub product.

― I suppose you're here because I've seen something I shouldn't, isn't it? ― She asked the shadow thing. It didn't reply. ― My best guess is that you're not here to kill me, but rather teach me a lesson. Stomp once for yes, two for no.

Her voice didn't betray her, but her hands were shaking. It was clear that the beast was a guard. The question is " _ **what**_ _is it guarding?"._

Even though magical and spiritual beings aren't essentially animals, their behaviour is in fact very similar. Smart beings are terrible guards because, unless they're bound by some mystical principle, they are likely to turn against the summoner and do whatever they want to the detriment of their original assignment. Geleth's _Xenoworlds_ had an entire chapter about those kind of creatures and how to tell whether it is a smart one playing dumb or a true mindless being.

There was a big chance that the shadow beast was a mindless one. Thus she wouldn't want to make any sudden or sharp movements. Zatanna slowly disengaged Thorn's kill switch and reached for the start button.

The acrid smell got stronger and two sets of yellowed dagger-like teeth stood out from the darkness everywhere around it. _It does have a mouth, then. Shit!_

Thorn came to life, spurting light in front of it. Zee didn't have time and little room for manoeuvre. The tires screeched over the pavement and the sidewalk when she took a sharp turn of the handlebar to the left, making Thorn fishtail before darting forward through the pitch black road.

As soon as she gained some distance, Zatanna heard the noise of something liquefying behind her. She didn't dare to glance behind and stealing a look at the side mirrors were useless. Instead, she rolled the throttle as much as she could. The wind made a stark whooshing sound in her ears and her eyes hurt a little with particles of dust hitting her unprotected head. _Better that than being eaten by shadow,_ she decided.

After turning right into a (also dark) avenue, she heard the liquid noise again. It sounded more like a slosh now, more "substantial" than the first one. Then, out of nowhere, two sets of yellowed dagger-like teeth appeared again, but now it was slightly above her head and under Thorn's tires.

Zatanna felt the smell strong as ever for a second and suddenly it faded away completely. All the lights in the distance from New Amsterdam, the whole skyline of the biggest city in America, the endless infinitude of the universe were gone.

She was swallowed by the shadow.


	4. Chapter 4

**IT STARTED WITH A PULP FICTION COMIC**

― Right, this isn't exactly a stroll in Hyde Park but I've gotten into worse. ― He announced, conversationally. There was no reciprocation. ― What? You're just gonna sit there and say nothing, mate? That's messed up, y'know? We both are to blame here. You're as guilty as I am.

The man to whom he was talking was as tall as a wardrobe. 6.2'', shoulders like two helmets (both in toughness and in shape), the body hard-forged into the apex of human physical athleticism, he stood silent and unmoving. In spite of his build, he was still clad in his "armour". It consisted of a skin-tight suit of a fabric called _GraSSiT_ (made of graphene coated spider silk, interwoven in a braid with threads of _twaron_ , in a 3:1 proportion), dyed dark grey, with hard scales of carbon-fibre polymer on his forearms, shins and knees, dyed pitch black. He lost his helmet during the crossing over.

― Y'know, I find it very ungentlemanlike. Yes, that's a word in case you didn't know. I thought you'd behave more like a human and less like a chiroptera.

The man barely moved. The only way to notice he was alive was his chest moving when he breathed. He was apparently meditating or something.

― Bah, nevermind. ― The Englishman gave up. ― Wanker! ― He cursed, loud enough to be heard but not as loud as to actually make the man lose his temper.

The blond man moved a hand inwards instinctively, but his hand found nothing to tuck itself on. He was wearing only a blood-stained white shirt, his favourite black tie (all his tie were black, anyway), khaki pants and black shoes. The raincoat had been obliterated.

― In the beginning I was just in it for the amusement, ― He tried again. Perhaps an amiable approach yielded better results... ― because it was different and mysterious. I think I was trying to **escape**. I wasn't poor, y'know, it's just that I never really fit in. The underground came and go every day, bringing and taking people with the same faceless familiarity, the same mediocre prospects in what they called "life". It was never life to me. No one's ever showed me what life really was. They only experienced simulacra, never having the smallest nibble at what a life truly is, too afraid to do it.

Then dark-haired man turned around, facing the confessions of a guilty man. He still had the hardest look on his jet black eyes, judgemental and stern, but he was surrendering his attention nevertheless.

― It started with a pulp fiction comic. Can you believe it? ― The man chuckled derisively. ― For some reason, I can't seem to remember any names on it, just the background: it was a guy who was the descendant of a powerful Celtic druid and he had inherited all his powers. The bloke, the druid descendant, he had the mission of facing a mysterious secret society of Roman legionnaires, but in the 1800 century. They were like Roman Illuminati or whatever. The druid man could shape-shift and control the forces of nature, but in London he didn't have much nature to use, so he was often in trouble and had to outsmart his opponents.

― The name was Garreth, the Green . It was a story in Phantastic , with _ph_ , not _f_ , Tales. Alf... hmm... my **step-father** had a full cardboard box of those.

― Yes! Exactly! Garreth, the Green! Fuck me, I've tried to remember that for decades! I really thought it was some sort of curse I had, that I'd never be able to remember anything about it. Thank you! ― John added, patting his interlocutor on the shoulder.

A confused (yet not aggressive as he'd expected) look was the only thing he got. It could've been way worse.

― Anyway, it was Garreth, the Green, was the responsible for my interest in magic. If any of that was true, I thought, I had to know it. I just had to drink from that pool and make that a part of my existence. So I ran away from home and went to the only place in the world I believed I could find anything magic at all: London, of course.

Without any sort of invitation or signalling, both men sat on the floor - which was no more than an invisible flat surface -, simultaneously. Time for a little sharing, maybe?

― When I arrived in The Smoke, I only got a briefcase in shambles with two shirts and the pulp fiction magazine in it. So, obviously, the first thing I did was to go to the exact same places Garreth visited in the magazine. The only thing is that most of the places weren't like in the magazine, except for the names. Can you imagine that the Piccadilly Circus was an actual circus and the Roman Illuminati used it to kidnap children to use as slaves?

― Yes, I can. I've come across something like that, once. ― Bruce replied, suddenly thoughtful.

― You mean the whole Grayson's deal, right? Nasty stuff, if you ask me.

― I didn't. ― He cut dryly.

The British had taken a step further than he should've. He felt like he was hunting a deer. A very touchy and startled deer. The faintest noise he made would send the elusive animal running into some very dark woods. John couldn't say why, but he decided he enjoyed this game. He wanted to play some more.

― Aaanyway, I eventually ran into some pretty interesting people. I met a girl named Yohanna, though she had this strong eastern European accent I never knew where she actually came from, who taught me how to perform true prestidigitation and helped me to survive the first two years there. After that came Lord Sir, a wino who insisted to be called by his _allegedly_ titles but knew absolutely everything about wards and charms, and Boris, a guy who somehow trapped himself in a dog's shape, well, a **talking** dog anyway, and taught me the principles of summoning.

― Seems like a nice gang. Did you have fun?

― Absolutely not! It was bloody terrible. I was ravenous most of the time. I slept outdoors countless times, raining or snowing or sleeting. I even got a situation with fleas and ticks twice! But I did learn stuff. Y'see, learning never comes from having fun. It's not just that you have to read the principles or listen to someone teaching you whatever you want to do; you have to understand it. Truly and thoroughly understand it. That's why people associate a wizard with a scholar. Anything you read or study, any new knowledge is nothing but a set of letters arranged in a particular way. Mastery, true mastery, comes when you take those letters and words and sentences and make it become as real as you are. As tangible as your own body.

― What's you point, Constantine? ― Batman asked impatiently.

John had this cryptic, almost mocking smirk on his face. The deer had raised its head and stared the hunter full in the eyes, realizing the aim locked in its forehead centre. It's now or never. John had to take the shot and he wouldn't miss this opportunity. He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger.

― I don't know how we got here. I cast something; I have no idea how or why or what. We are completely trapped here. If time affects this dimension, we'll die eventually. If it doesn't, we'll spend eternity here. How does that sound?

Bruce Wayne exhaled noisily. He looked tired for the first time.

* * *

 **SO BEAUTIFUL AND SO TERRIFYING AT THE SAME TIME**

Eons had come and gone. And didn't, altogether, naturally. That's something that's bugged me for a long time. The passing of time, I mean. Everyone has longings and desires, wishes and obligations, dreams and fears... Yet what amuses us most is wondering about time.

We are often shocked to know that this or that war has happened unbelievably three years ago. Could _it be that long? It is almost a lifetime!_

However it is perfectly fine to acknowledge the Black Death struck Europe in the 13th century... _or was it the 14th? Nay, you're delusional, it was when the Moors invaded Spain. Or were that the Mongols?_ Well, whatever, it's sometime around that...

Yes, the passing of time. Wonderful and dreadful.

Anyway, I digress. Let's get back to the important bit, shall we?

It was an atypical year. Although it was _Tepeilhuitl_ , the rain hadn't come yet. On a cool, clear night, Meztli was born under the whitest, roundest moon ever to gaze upon the earth. That little thing barely had the strength to cry, putting an enormous effort to make its tiny scrawny hands reach his mother's.

Meztli's family wasn't particularly rich. They lived in the city of Tlaxcala. It was from time to time harassed by the Aztecs from Tenochtitlan. Their sworn enemies loved to cut their trade routes denying them things such as salt and cotton, and making ambushes in specific spots along the valley. Cowardly as Tlaxcallans considered this tactic, it was still impossible to get rid of the Mexica given their vast numbers. The foes fought for many years. Sometimes Tlaxcala emerged as the clear victor; those victories would bring respite and respect. Sometimes Tenochtitlan was victorious, and those times were the times when everyone would pick up anything they could to fight back against a surely invading force. Those were times of terror and lost hope. For some inexplicable reason, they never did invade.

Then came the big drought. The wrath of the gods. And the flowery wars. After that, things kind of settled down. Hunger was the common foe.

The wars were frequent, but much less deadly. It was a time of display of courage and combat prowess. Whoever went to war and came back was regarded as a hero.

The years passed and Meztli became a stout young man. His clay-coloured hair stood out among the other men, which was exactly what drawn Itzel's attention.

At first, the lovebirds would meet under an avocado tree near a water fountain. Meztli wouldn't dare to touch her. Itzel wouldn't dare to ask him to touch her. Still being around each other was everything they needed. Meztli loved how the smell of _copalxocotl_ lingered in her hair. She, on the other hand, appreciated how sensitive and intelligent he was.

Wasn't he a commoner, they'd surely get married. But he was.

She was the eldest daughter of Xicontencatl, the Elder. It wasn't expected of her to marry anyone but a great warrior and member of the nobility. Everything that Meztli wasn't.

In 11 water, according to their calendar, Meztli decided to join the flowery war. If that's what it took to finally be with Itzel, so be it.

The young man was a rather unremarkable figure in the frontline of the war party, aside from his distinctive hair colour. It was the only thing he had in special. Other than that, Meztli was reminded that he was indeed no one, just like his inability to marry his beloved one suggested. To make it worse, the enemy mocked the Tlaxcallans wearing long eagle feathers, beautifully crafted wooden helmets and striking jaguar pelts over their bodies. Meztli had a worn jute-fibre shirt and his plain wooden shield.

The young Tlaxcallan decided that those feathers would make an excellent present for Itzel and a proof of his bravery.

Meztli hacked and slashed with his _macuahuitl_ , the obsidian bladed baton he himself had assembled, incapacitating dozens of Mexica.

He found Itzel and presented her with many feathers, just like he intended. The noble girl brought it before her father and Meztli made a formal proposal of marriage.

Her father, Xicontencatl, wasn't very happy with it but he could clearly see that a very strong feeling was behind those two. If his daughter was to marry one who wasn't noble, he'd better be a truly god-sent warrior.

Meztli's quest was to engage in thirteen flowery wars. If he returned triumphant, then he could earn the ruler's daughter's hand in marriage.

It took about six years of fighting to finally reach his last war. He was a very respectable warrior then. He'd assembled a full Jaguar armour from captured enemies. Although he wasn't noble to be able to wear one of those, he'd gotten it through his own combat skills, which was more than fair to let him use it in battle.

That morning both parties waited for a surreptitious rain to pass. It was unexpected and it caught everyone by surprise. Was it a good or a bad omen?

With the battlefield all soaking, the battle went much different from the usual. The movements were stranger, unnatural, sluggish. Meztli's _macuahuitl_ seemed heavier, wearing him down with every blow he dealt.

Soon enough, he saw himself surrounded by five Mexica, two of them being Jaguars. One of them had bloodshot eyes. That one looked viciously hungry.

Meztli managed to fend off one blow with his shield, descending his baton onto the arm to maim the enemy with fierceness. He did feel a gash opening on his lower back but he was so frenzied that no pain ever crossed his body. He could only tell it because the fabric of his Jaguar pelt started to get sticky and dark red immediately.

In desperation, he spun and caught one enemy on the throat, making blood come out in powerful gushes. His vision was blurred by the blood that caught his eyes. Then a sharp pang flashed behind his leg. His leg subsided and he fell to the ground, feeling his right foot no longer responding to his commands. The bloodshot Jaguar's grin was the last thing he saw before passing out.

Meztli was taken care. For a flowery war prisoner, it was only expected that he would be kept in good health. His big tendon was clean cut, it'd take forever to heal, if ever, and he was helpless before the situation. Of course, his fate was already sealed.

On a warm _Izcalli_ day, Meztli was placed on a rectangular stone slab. Before him, an astonishingly dressed priest, in colours Meztli never thought he'd see in his life, sat a bowl with clean water in it.

It was so beautiful and so terrifying at the same time. The captive wondered if that's what meeting a god felt like. Being both so amazed and so scared before such grandiosity.

A second priest, equally magnificent, washed Meztli's body with a cloth dampened in the bowl. While the washing was made, a rhythmic and mesmerizing hymn began to be sung. The first priest started the hymn as a hum, elevating it when a myriad of people joined the sacred song, making it rise above every noise there was.

When the music had gathered a life of its own, the priest produced a knife made of flint. It was wicked sharp. Though the priest held it gently, it still made trickles of blood where it bit on his hand.

The priest eyed Meztli. His expression was stoic, a proper mask of stone. Meztli hardly noticed it. A beautiful, giant full moon was right behind the priest's right shoulder. It seemed only proper, the Tlaxcallan thought.

Raising the flint knife above the captive, the priest dedicated the sacrifice to _Chalchiuitlicue_ , to her mercifulness and her gift of the rain.

Meztli didn't feel the knife penetrate his abdomen. Neither the opening of it, ascending from the navel to his sternum. He was so drunk with the moon, so lost in its majesty. He asked not to feel anything. He asked _Matlalcueitl_ , which he knew it was her true name, not to scream and be afraid. The god answered and he was thankful for that.

All he could feel was the smell of _copalxocotl_ in the air. The smell of Itzel's hair.

In a second, all his strength was gone. The only thing left was his heart, still beating, still warm, dripping blood and emanating the power of a great warrior who was no more.

The priest laid it into the bowl and stared at it for a while. Death was a truly powerful thing. Perhaps the most, among all things. No wonder the sun rose everyday by its power!


End file.
